Filthy Girl

Longer fics

Blood Money (Jeff the Killer x F!Reader)

Bus Stop (Ticci Toby x F!Reader)

Deer Season (Tim Wright/Masky x F!Reader) || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || Part 6 || Part 7 || Part 8 || Part 9 || pls check #deer season for discussions

Tainted Meat (Eyeless Jack x F!Reader)

The Hunt (Tim Wright/Masky x Proxy!Reader x Brian Thomas/Hoodie)

Green Light (BEN Drowned x F!Reader)

The Pit (Jeff the Killer x F!Reader)

The Cabin in the Woods (Tim Wright/Masky x F!Reader x Brian Thomas/Hoodie) || Part 2 with Toby || pls check #cabin fic for discussions

Safety Off (Brian Thomas/Hoodie x F!Reader) || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4 || Part 5 || pls check #safety off for discussions

Scared Little Bunny (Ticci Toby x F!Reader)

Halfway Gone (Jeff the Killer x F!Reader x BEN Drowned)

General character headcanons

Liu Woods/Homicidal Liu Headcanons

Eyeless Jack Headcanons

BEN Drowned Headcanons

Tim Wright/Masky Headcanons

Brian Thomas/Hoodie Headcanons

Ticci Toby Headcanons

Jeff the Killer Headcanons

Creeps' Zodiacs

Visual Headcanons: The Creeps & Their Bodies

How I Imagine the Creeps’ Living Situation

Where are the creeps from?

The Creeps' Childhoods

Would the creeps ever talk about their past with their S/O?

Do the creeps know about each other's pasts?

Do the creeps take meds?

How do the creeps feel about killing?

How the Creeps Like to Dress

What the Creeps’ Hair Looks Like

Do the creeps have piercings?

Do the creeps have tattoos?

The Creeps' Sense of Humor

Creeps’ Deepest Insecurities

Tim and Brian Sharing a Girl in Bed: A Rant

Would Tim and Brian Share a Girlfriend? A Rant

Tim and Brian x Feminine Reader: A Rant

What is Jeff's relationship with Liu like?

How do Toby and Jack interact?

Brian's truck

What the Creeps Would Do for a Living if They Were Regular Guys

What the Creeps Do on Halloween

Other headcanons/drabbles

The Creeps' Reaction to a Girl Flirting with Them

The Creeps' Red Flags in a Girl

The Creeps' Confidence Around Girls

The Creeps' Love Languages

Creeps with an S/O Who Gives Handmade Gifts

Creeps Reacting to Their S/O Being Insecure

How Noisy the Creeps Are in Bed

Ben's mommy kink

How the Creeps Feel About Marriage

Primal play with the creeps

Creeps Seeing Their S/O Without Makeup for the First Time

Would the Creeps Make Love to Their S/O?

Creeps Reacting to Their S/O Getting Emotional While Patching Them Up

Toby with a muzzle

Creeps saying "I love you" to their S/O

Creeps' Reaction to their S/O Getting Pregnant

Tim and Brian with a rope bunny

Brian with a Broken Hand x F!Reader

Do Tim and Brian have a daddy kink?

Proxies in a Toxic Relationship

Would the Creeps Cheat on Their S/O?

Creeps Sleeping Next to Their S/O

Creeps Showering With Their S/O

Creeps With a Bratty S/O

What Creeps Do in Their Free Time with Their S/O

Creeps Going Down on a Girl

Creeps After an Argument With Their S/O

Creeps With a Girly S/O

Creeps' Favorite Body Parts on a Girl

How the "Girlfriend Air" Would Hit the Creeps

Toby with an old crush before he became a proxy

Tim and Brian with an ex-girlfriend before they became proxies

How the Creeps Like a Girl to Dress

Creeps React to S/O Sending a Spicy Pic

Creeps React to Another Creep Landing Their Ideal S/O

How the Creeps Flirt and Pin After Their Crush

How the Creeps Handle Post-Sex Affection

Creeps React to Their S/O Getting Hit On by Other Creeps

Toby and EJ x Autistic S/O

When Someone Flirts With Their S/O

Tim and Brian with a soft, devoted reader who can’t hide how much she loves them || Part 2 with Toby, Jeff, Ben, EJ

Ticci Toby x Sassy, Flustered, Understanding Proxy Reader

Ex S/O Is Engaged to Someone Else

Tim

Tim comes home looking like the day has wrung him out and left nothing useful behind.

The door shuts heavy behind him. His boots drag across the floor. His jacket comes off one shoulder, then the other, landing over the back of a chair without much care. He smells like cold air, smoke, and exhaustion, his hair a mess, his jaw rough with stubble, his eyes dull and distant in a way that makes your heart sink before he even says a word.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping toward him.

He leans down when you reach for him, but the kiss he gives you is barely there. His mouth brushes yours, warm and tired, but he doesn’t really kiss back. Not like he usually does. His hand comes to your waist for half a second, squeezes once, then falls away.

“Long day?” you ask.

He gives a low grunt that sounds almost like a laugh. “Somethin’ like that.”

Then he walks straight to the bedroom.

You follow a moment later and find him already stretched out on the bed, face turned into the pillow, one arm hanging over the side. He hasn’t even taken his jeans off. His shoulders look massive and stiff beneath his shirt, the fabric pulling tight across his back every time he breathes.

You crawl onto the bed beside him and rest your hand on his spine.

He doesn’t move.

“Tim.”

“Mhm.”

“Roll over.”

He turns his head just enough to squint at you. “For what?”

“Just do it.”

He watches you for a second, too tired to argue properly. Then, with a deep sigh, he shifts onto his stomach fully, arms folding under the pillow.

You swing one leg over him and sit carefully across the backs of his thighs.

That gets a faint sound out of him. “Gettin’ bossy now, huh?”

“You need it.”

He doesn’t answer, which means you’re right.

You push his shirt up over his back, exposing warm skin and tense muscle. Tim is broad under your hands, solid in that rough, masculine way that always makes him feel larger than the room when he’s close to you. But right now, all that strength is wound tight. His shoulders are like stone beneath your palms.

You start firm because you know he can take it.

The second your thumbs dig into the first knot, he groans low into the pillow.

“Jesus Christ.”

You pause. “Too much?”

“No, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice rough and thick. “Keep goin’.”

The pet name slips out of him in that tired drawl, all gravel and warmth, and it makes something soft open in your chest.

You lean your weight into your hands and work him slowly, pressing into the hard lines of his shoulders, then down beside his spine. He groans again, deeper this time, his fingers tightening in the sheets.

“Your hands feel so damn good,” he says, barely lifting his face from the pillow.

You smile, rubbing the heel of your palm into the muscle near his shoulder blade. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” His voice drops lower. “Don’t know what you’re doin’, but keep doin’ it.”

You keep going.

The room settles around you. The low light. The warmth of him under your thighs. The slow give of muscle beneath your palms as you work out knot after knot. Tim is quiet except for the occasional groan, the soft curse under his breath, the way he exhales your name like it’s the only thing he has energy left to say.

After a while, one of his hands reaches blindly toward the nightstand.

You glance over and see him fumbling for his cigarette pack.

He turns his head enough for one eye to open. “Light one for me?”

You smile. “You’re being spoiled.”

A tired smirk pulls at his mouth. “Ain’t that what you’re here for?”

You roll your eyes, but you grab a cigarette and lighter anyway. He watches you from the corner of his eye as you light it, then settles it between his fingers.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You go back to rubbing his shoulders, slower now, your hands smoothing down his back. He takes a drag, exhales away from you, and sinks even heavier into the mattress.

A few minutes pass before he speaks again.

“Gotta ask,” he says, voice lazy and mildly amused, “do I get a happy endin’?”

Your hands still, and you can't help but giggle at the ridiculous question.

“Oh my God, Tim!”

His shoulders shake with a low, tired chuckle.

“What?” he mutters, smirking into the pillow. “Just checkin'’.”

You press your thumb deliberately into a knot near his neck.

He groans hard, cigarette hand dropping safely away from the bed. “Shit– alright, alright.”

You lean down, kissing the warm skin between his shoulders. “Behave.”

His smirk softens, eyes closing again.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Brian

Brian is sitting on the couch when you find him, quiet in that way that means the tiredness has gone deeper than his bones.

The TV is on, but he isn’t watching it. His elbows rest on his knees, hands loosely clasped, head slightly bowed. The glow of the screen moves over his face in pale flashes, catching the hard line of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the strain sitting heavy across his shoulders.

He looks composed, he always does. But you know him well enough to see the tension underneath it.

You come around behind the couch without saying anything at first. Your hands settle gently on his shoulders, thumbs resting near the base of his neck.

Brian’s head tilts slightly, just enough to acknowledge you.

“You’re tense,” you murmur.

He exhales softly through his nose. “Am I?”

“Very.”

His mouth twitches faintly, but he doesn’t answer.

You begin slowly, rubbing over the tops of his shoulders through his shirt. At first, he stays exactly as he is, elbows on his knees, posture controlled. His muscles are hard beneath your palms, knotted from holding himself steady for too long.

You press your thumbs in deeper.

His eyes close.

There it is.

You work carefully, moving in small, firm circles, following the tension from his neck to his shoulders and back again. Brian’s breathing changes first. It slows and deepens. His head lowers a little more. His hands unclasp, fingers spreading against his thighs.

You lean over the back of the couch to get a better angle, your chest lightly brushing his shoulder as your thumbs find a stubborn knot near the base of his neck.

He groans under his breath.

It’s soft, restrained, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

You smile and keep your pressure steady.

“Right there?” you ask.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You work that spot patiently, feeling the muscle resist you at first, then finally begin to give. Brian’s shoulders drop inch by inch under your hands. The careful stillness leaves him slowly, replaced by something heavier, warmer, safer.

“That feels heavenly,” he murmurs.

The words are quiet, but they make your cheeks warm.

You bend down and kiss the top of his head, your lips brushing his hair.

He reaches up then, taking one of your hands before you can return it fully to his shoulder. His fingers wrap around yours, calloused and warm, and he brings your hand to his mouth.

The kiss he presses to your knuckles is gentle.

You don’t say anything, just let him hold you there for a second.

Then he lowers your hand back to his shoulder, still holding it lightly, like he doesn’t want to let go too quickly.

You resume the massage with your free hand first, then both when he finally releases you. You rub down over his shoulder blades, then back up to his neck, your movements unhurried and sure.

Brian leans back a little, just enough for the back of his head to rest briefly against your stomach.

You kiss his hair again.

He lets his eyes stay closed.

And you keep going until the tension in him loosens enough that his breathing nearly matches yours.

Ben

Ben has been complaining for twenty minutes.

At first, it was background noise. A dramatic groan from his desk. A muttered curse at his screen. A long, theatrical sigh as he shifted in his chair for the tenth time. But now he’s sitting hunched in front of his computer, one hand on the mouse, the other reaching behind him to rub uselessly at his own back.

“My spine is actually betraying me,” he says.

You look over from the bed. “Maybe because you sit like a shrimp.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, offended. “I am suffering.”

“You’re folded in half.”

“I’m gaming.”

“You’re shaped like a question mark.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then winces when he turns too far.

You sit up. “C'mon, Ben. Bed. Now.”

His brows lift. “Damn, buy me dinner first.”

“Ben.”

“Okay, okay.”

He gets up with all the drama of a man heading to execution, then flops face-down onto the bed. His hoodie rides up slightly, hair spilling across the pillow, one cheek squished against the sheets.

You climb on beside him and settle close, pushing the back of his hoodie up enough to get your hands on him through his thin shirt.

He grins into the pillow. “Be gentle with me. I’m delicate.”

“You’re so annoying.”

Then your thumbs press into his shoulders.

His joking dies instantly.

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then Ben lets out a long, low groan that sounds so relieved you almost laugh.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles.

You smile. “Still delicate?”

“Shut up. Don’t stop.”

You start working his shoulders properly, pressing into the tight muscle with slow, steady pressure. He’s tense from sitting too long, from hunching over his keyboard, from acting like his body can run forever on weed, energy drinks, and bad posture.

At first, he keeps trying to make comments.

Something about your “magic hands.” Something about how he should have asked for this sooner. Something about how he’s definitely dying and this is his final wish.

But the deeper you work into his back, the quieter he gets.

His hands curl into the pillow. His legs go loose. Every time you find another knot, he groans like it’s being pulled out of him against his will.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That feels so good.”

You rub along either side of his spine, then back up to his shoulders. “You really were sore.”

“I told you I was suffering.”

“You always say you’re suffering.”

“This time it was real.”

You laugh softly, but your hands stay gentle. The room glows blue from his abandoned computer screen, the game still running, his character probably standing somewhere unsafe and unattended. Ben doesn’t seem to care. His whole attention has narrowed down to your palms on his back and the slow relief spreading through him.

After a while, he turns his head enough to look at you with one half-lidded eye.

“You’re getting a reward for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” His grin is lazy, crooked, and deeply pleased with itself. “Eating your ass tonight.”

You stop for half a second.

“Ben!”

“What?” His eyes widen with fake innocence, though his face is still smushed into the pillow. “I’m grateful.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, and press your thumbs into his shoulders again.

Jeff

Jeff is sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to you, toying with his lighter.

Click.

Flame.

Click.

Dark.

He does it over and over, shoulders hunched slightly, elbows resting on his knees. You’re lying behind him, half under the blanket, watching the orange flicker of fire catch against his fingers, then disappear again. He hasn’t said much since he came in. Just kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the mattress, and started messing with the lighter like it might burn the tension out of him if he stared long enough.

His back is tight beneath his shirt. You can see it in the line of his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck, the way he keeps rolling one shoulder like something there won’t loosen.

You quietly sit up.

The mattress shifts under your weight as you scoot closer, moving until you’re right behind him. Jeff turns his head slightly, sensing you, but he doesn’t look all the way back.

Your hands settle on his shoulders.

He stiffens.

“What’re you doin'?”

You start rubbing before you answer, thumbs pressing into the muscle near his neck.

“You’re tense.”

“I don’t need a massage.”

His voice is rough and grumpy.

You just hum softly and keep going.

For a minute, he acts like he’s tolerating it. Like this is something you’re doing to amuse yourself and he’s simply allowing it because he has nothing better to do. The lighter stays in his hand, though he stops flicking it. His head remains angled forward, hair falling around his face.

Then your thumbs find the first real knot.

His fingers tighten around the lighter.

You press slow circles into the spot, firm and patient.

Jeff’s shoulders rise with an inhale.

Then drop as he exhales.

Little by little, the resistance leaves him. His back softens beneath your hands. His head dips forward. The lighter hangs loose between his fingers now, forgotten. When your palms drag down along his shoulder blades and then back up again, he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a groan.

You move closer, your knees bracketing him from behind, your chest brushing his back as you lean in to work deeper into his shoulders. He’s warm through his shirt. Solid. Still tense, but giving way under your touch.

“Right there?” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a second.

Then, barely audible, “Yeah.”

So you stay there.

You knead the knot until it loosens under your thumbs, then smooth your palms over the area afterward, gentler now. Jeff’s head lowers more, exposing the back of his neck. For all his sharpness, all his teeth and blood and cruel little smiles, he looks almost vulnerable like this. Held still by something softer than force.

After several minutes, your hands slow.

You think maybe he’s had enough.

But the second your palms lift, his hand reaches back and catches your wrist.

“Did I ask you to stop?”

You look at the back of his head, then chuckle under your breath.

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

There’s no real bite in it.

You settle behind him again, your hands returning to his shoulders. He releases your wrist as soon as you touch him, like that was all he needed.

You lean forward and press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

Jeff goes still.

For one quiet second, he doesn’t move at all.

Then his chin dips, and he lets out a low breath.

You kiss him there again, softer, before going back to working the tension from his back.

He doesn’t need to thank you, the way he stays, relaxed and silent under your hands, says enough.

Jack

You find Jack in the infirmary long after he should have stopped working.

The room is dim except for the cold overhead light above the counter. Supplies are lined up with his usual precision, instruments cleaned and set aside, bloodied gauze already sealed away for disposal. He stands at the sink, sleeves pushed up, washing his hands even though they already look clean.

His posture gives him away.

Jack is usually still, but this is different. His shoulders sit too high. His neck is tense. Every movement is controlled, but slower than usual, worn down by hours of work and focus.

You lean against the doorway, watching him.

“You’re overdoing it.”

His head tilts slightly, acknowledging you without turning around. “I am almost finished.”

“You said that an hour ago.”

He dries his hands carefully. “There was more to do.”

“There’s always more to do.”

That makes him pause.

You cross the room and nod toward the cot against the wall. “Sit down.”

He turns his head toward you, dark sockets unreadable.

You lift your brows. “C'mon, doctor’s orders.”

For a second, he only stares.

Then your mouth twitches into a small giggle, and something in him softens. It’s subtle, barely there, but you catch it. The faintest shift of his mouth. The smallest suggestion of a smile.

“You are not a doctor,” he says.

“I’m acting physician of making-you-sit-down.”

Another pause.

Then Jack obeys.

He moves to the cot and sits, tall and quiet, hands resting loosely on his thighs. You step behind him, close enough that your knees brush the edge of the cot, and place your hands on his shoulders.

His body goes very still under your touch.

“You’re tense,” you say softly.

“I know.”

The honesty surprises you a little.

You begin gently, rubbing over the tops of his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight muscle near his neck. Jack doesn’t make a sound at first. He sits perfectly upright, head slightly bowed, accepting the care in silence like he’s still trying to understand what to do with it.

You take your time.

His skin is cool beneath the fabric of his scrubs, but the tension in him is unmistakable, deep and stubborn. You work slowly, pressing in with steady circles, then smoothing your palms outward along his shoulders.

After a while, his shoulders lower.

You smile and lean closer. “Does that feel good?”

Jack is quiet for a moment.

Then he says, low and simple, “Yes.”

Your hands keep moving, warmer now, more confident. You rub down toward his shoulder blades, then back up, fingers slipping carefully along the base of his neck. His head dips forward, and the tension begins to leave him in slow, reluctant layers.

Then you hear it - a low vibration in his chest.

You pause for half a second, your smile softening.

Jack doesn’t comment on it, and neither do you.

You simply keep massaging his shoulders as the purr deepens, quiet at first, then steadier. It fills the small space between you, low and soothing, like his body is answering for him in a language more honest than words.

You lean down and press a kiss to the side of his head.

“I love taking care of you,” you whisper.

The purring stutters for a second.

Then Jack tilts his head, slowly, until the side of his face rests against your hand.

The gesture is careful.

You still your palm against him, letting him lean into it.

His eyes close, and one of his hands rises to touch your wrist.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You bend closer, brushing your lips to his temple.

“Always.”